The Union Quilters (40 page)

Stung, Gerda turned to face her. “You will never know how truly sorry I am that I failed.”

In reply, Charlotte pursed her lips and pushed past Gerda to disembark. After a disorienting moment on the platform, surrounded by other passengers and waiting friends and noise and confusion, they spotted a gray-haired man with thick gray muttonchops, standing near the ticket window. He wore a black wool coat with a white rose in the lapel, just as his telegram had promised. The gentleman saw them at the same moment, nodded in greeting, and worked his way through the crowd toward them.

“Mrs. Granger?” he said to Charlotte, and to Gerda added, “Miss Bergstrom?”

They confirmed his guess, and he introduced himself as William Bastwick, a longtime friend of Thomas Nelson’s father. He escorted them to his waiting carriage, and within moments they were on their way to his home, where, he promised, his wife would have a hot supper waiting for them. Gently and graciously, he offered them his condolences for their recent losses. “I’ve known Thomas Nelson since he was a boy, and a more brilliant scholar I never hope to meet,” he said. “I never had the pleasure of making Dr. Granger’s acquaintance, but I understand he was a remarkable man, a gifted surgeon as well as a true patriot.”

“Thank you,” Gerda and Charlotte said in unison. When Charlotte frowned, Gerda realized, too late, that Mr. Bastwick had been speaking mostly to Charlotte. And why not? As far as Mr. Bastwick knew, Gerda was no more than a friend of the family.

They drove past the new capitol on the way. Construction had begun before the war, and the dome had been only recently completed. Earlier that day, Mr. Bastwick remarked, Mr. Lincoln had issued a proclamation setting aside the last Thursday in November “as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to Almighty God the beneficent Creator and Ruler of the Universe.” Mr. Bastwick approved, noting that even in troubled times, perhaps especially in troubled times, it was necessary and good to remember to give thanks to God.

“I confess I’m not feeling very thankful these days,” said Charlotte. “I doubt even a presidential proclamation could inspire me.”

“You’re in mourning, my dear,” said Mr. Bastwick as the driver pulled to a stop in the porte cochere of a stately three-story, whitewashed brick residence overlooking a park. “In time you will remember your blessings. You have two young children, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes.” Thinking of them, Charlotte’s mouth turned in a small, wistful smile. “They are a blessing to me, especially now that my husband is gone. I see all that was best about him reflected in our son and daughter.”

Her eyes darted to Gerda as they climbed out of the carriage, her expression inscrutable. Gerda wondered if she was thinking of her vow to keep Gerda away from her children. Weary, Gerda contemplated telling her that she had nothing to fear, that she had no intention of poisoning them with her corrupt presence, but she didn’t have the stomach for a bitter argument, especially in front of their kindhearted host. She preferred the silence they had shared on the train.

Mrs. Bastwick welcomed them warmly at the door and showed them to a guest room, where they freshened up for dinner, which was served in a formal dining room with dark cherry wainscoting and elegant floral wallpaper. Pale and visibly exhausted, Charlotte only picked at her food, but Gerda savored every morsel of the roast duck and acorn squash. Afterward, Charlotte declined a cup of coffee, excused herself, and retired, but Gerda remained to discuss the next day’s plans with the Bastwicks. In the morning, Mr. Bastwick would accompany Gerda and Charlotte as far south as the train would carry them, which varied according to the movement of the armies. They would disembark as close to Richmond as they could, then hire a driver to carry them to the Whitehall residence in the outskirts of the city. That evening or the following morning, depending upon the arrival of Miss Van Lew’s servant, Gerda and Charlotte would enter Richmond, where they would stay with Miss Van Lew until the commandant of Libby Prison agreed to meet with them. Then Miss Van Lew would take them to the prison, where Charlotte would beseech Major Turner to release Jonathan’s body to them. Gerda would purchase a coffin and hire a driver to carry them back to Mrs. Whitehall’s home, where Mr. Bastwick would be waiting to take them to the train station. From there, they would make the long journey home.

“You’ve had no word from Miss Van Lew?” asked Mr. Bastwick.

“No, but we had to leave soon after I sent the telegrams,” Gerda explained. “It’s possible her reply arrived after our departure.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Bastwick, but Gerda knew he was thinking that it was possible neither Miss Van Lew nor Mrs. Whitehall had received their urgent messages. Their entire journey might be thwarted if the women were not expecting them.

Suddenly exhausted, Gerda thanked the Bastwicks for their generosity and bade them good night. She slept uncomfortably in the bed beside Charlotte, waking frequently throughout the night, disoriented by the unfamiliar beams and shadows on the ceiling until she remembered where she was. Despite her restless night, she woke at dawn feeling alert and clearheaded. Charlotte stirred when Gerda slipped from beneath the quilt and climbed out of bed, and as Gerda poured water into the washbasin and made her toilet, she watched in the mirror as behind her, Charlotte sat up, stared bleary-eyed at Gerda’s back, then shook her head, muttered something disparaging and unintelligible, and fell back against the pillow.

“I’m no happier about our close quarters than you,” said Gerda, drying her face and replacing the towel on the hook.

Charlotte threw back the quilts and rose. “Yes, I’m sure I’m not the Granger you prefer to share a bed with.”

“Stop it,” snapped Gerda. “You disgrace his memory.”

“I disgrace him?” said Charlotte, incredulous. “You’re a fine one to accuse me of that.”

Vigorously, Gerda unbraided her hair, brushed it out, and braided it neatly again. “Hate me if you must. If it helps you to grieve, go on and hate me.”

“Do you really believe that hating you has ever helped me?”

Gerda did not know what to say. She packed her satchel and went downstairs to breakfast. The Bastwicks were already at the table, conversing in low, urgent tones, and Charlotte soon joined them. Gerda’s stomach was a knot of apprehension, and though Mrs. Bastwick urged her to eat, she could only swallow a few mouthfuls of porridge and buttered bread. It was a warm, sunny morning, the garden still misty with dew, but her hands were cold. She tried to warm them around her coffee cup.

Mrs. Bastwick had the cook pack them a lunch for the train and a cold dinner for later. Her chin quivered as she bade them good-bye and cautioned them to take care. At the station, Mr. Bastwick insisted upon paying for their tickets and purchased a private compartment so that they could travel in comfort and speak freely. He carried a letter of introduction from a member of the Virginia legislature, a longtime friend with whom he had served in Congress for eight years. If Confederate patrols confronted them along the way, Mr. Bastwick hoped the letter would ensure their safe passage.

The farther south they journeyed, the more visible the scars of war were upon the landscape—abandoned breastworks, overturned earth, splintered and charred trees. “It will take a generation for the land to heal,” said Mr. Bastwick, watching from the window as they passed through the hills of northeastern Virginia. Gerda nodded, noting that the gentleman had turned his thoughts to a time after the war as if it might be soon upon them. It did seem generally understood that the war was approaching its conclusion. If only men on both sides would not insist upon fighting to the last but would bow to the inevitability of a Union victory and lay down their arms to prevent the additional loss of life. The end of the war would come too late for Jonathan and Thomas, but not for many others. Her heart went out to the women who would lose the men they loved on the last day of the war.

The conductor passed through the train, announcing that the next station would be the end of the line, for it was the last before the front where they could turn the engine. After disembarking, Charlotte and Gerda waited on the platform while Mr. Bastwick hired a livery wagon. Charlotte’s face was drawn and pale beneath her veil.

“You should eat something,” said Gerda, though she knew her advice would be unwelcome. “You need to keep up your strength for what lies ahead of us.”

“Are you referring to our travels,” said Charlotte hollowly, “or to life without Jonathan?”

An ache in Charlotte’s voice gave Gerda pause. “I was referring to our travels, but you may take it as you wish.” Through the window of the ticket office, she spotted a coffeepot brewing on the stove. Leaving Charlotte seated on a bench, she went inside and persuaded the clerk to let her buy a steaming cupful, which she carried back to Charlotte. “Drink this,” she urged briskly. “And you really should have a bite to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Charlotte, but she drank the coffee, sipping slowly, staring off into space. Gerda muffled a sigh and glanced at the clock hanging near the ticket window, wondering what was keeping Mr. Bastwick and fearing that the army’s demands for fresh horses to replace those killed in battle meant that none remained in the town for Mr. Bastwick to hire.

“I’ve often wondered what my husband saw in you,” Charlotte said distantly, her small, pale hands cradling the steaming cup. “I know he considered you the cleverest woman he had ever met, but why he would continue to admire you after the passage of time, I could never understand.”

Gerda hardly knew what to say to that. “He loved me.”

“He loved
me
,” said Charlotte. “He was fond of you, that I will admit, but he
loved
me.”

Gerda could not imagine any subject she wanted to debate less. “As you wish.”

“Even now you won’t allow yourself to see the truth.” Charlotte took a deep drink and straightened on the bench. “Why did you cling to your devotion after he had made his choice? Was it because of your son?”

For a moment, Gerda forgot the old lie and had no idea what Charlotte was talking about. Even when she remembered an instant later, she still replied, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, drop the pretense. You’ve fooled most of the Elm Creek Valley, but I know those boys aren’t twins. I know it even though Jonathan would never tell me whether he indeed fathered your child.”

“He said he had not?”

“He would not say either way.” Charlotte brushed aside her veil and fixed Gerda with a piercing look. “I’ve seen you with those children, and you behave as a fond aunt should, but never once have I detected in your manner the longing of a mother denied her child.”

“I don’t wish to discuss this.”

“Jonathan was not that child’s father, was he?” pressed Charlotte. “Nor are you his mother, nor are those children twins.”

Considering the number of years Charlotte had brooded over her husband’s attachment to his lost love, it was perhaps inevitable that she would one day discover the truth. “You must tell no one,” Gerda said, instinctively lowering her voice. “You have no idea what damage you could cause.”

“What of the damage your lie has caused to me and my children?”

“If I tell you the truth, some of the truth, will you promise never to reveal it to anyone?”

Charlotte paused, considering. “Yes, I will. If I believe you’re being honest with me, I will take the secret to my grave.”

Gerda could not tell her everything, but she would confess what Charlotte most wanted to know. “Jonathan never so much as kissed me.”

Gerda quickly put her back to Charlotte so she would not have to see the grieving widow’s expression change from surprise to relief to satisfaction, like the sunlight breaking through clouds. She should have been happy to offer Charlotte some small measure of comfort in her grief, but instead she felt as if she had conceded the last claim she had to Jonathan’s love.

 

About two hours after they arrived at the station, Mr. Bastwick returned with a hired wagon and a single horse. They set out for Richmond, following the route recommended by the owner of the livery stable, who frequently delivered goods from the station to the front lines. When they reached the Union pickets, they were warned of the dangers lurking ahead and urged to turn back, but when they explained their purpose, the soldiers, perhaps thinking of what they would want for their own remains, did not impede them. Their hopes to avoid Rebel soldiers vanished within a few miles of Richmond when a northbound cavalry patrol encountered them on the road and ordered them to halt. Gerda fought to conceal her surprise at the men’s gaunt faces and threadbare uniforms as Mr. Bastwick showed them the letter of introduction from his former congressional colleague and explained that he was escorting the young widow to collect her late husband’s body.

“Seems like a grim task for such a fair young creature,” said the captain, looking from the letter to Charlotte’s face, beautiful despite the veil and her sorrow.

“If you please, sir,” Charlotte said, “I know my husband best, and after so much time, only I can identify him beyond any shadow of a doubt. I am sure your wife or sweetheart would insist upon doing the same for you.”

“Alas, I have no wife,” said the captain in a slow Virginia drawl, returning the letter to Mr. Bastwick, “and my sweetheart left me more than a year ago for a man who decided to sit out the war.”

When Charlotte sniffed to show her disdain for such inconstancy, the captain smiled and told them they could proceed—after his men searched the wagon. The soldiers confiscated the food hamper but took nothing else as far as Gerda could see, although she was glad that she’d had the foresight to pin her purse to the inside of her skirts rather than leave her money in the satchel. Before long, the captain ordered his men to let them pass, warning Mr. Bastwick that they might not be permitted into the city proper. “You, sir, should take care to keep that letter close to hand,” he added. “Another officer might have taken you prisoner and held you for ransom.”